


Homestead

by Patch



Series: A World in the Woods [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Found Family, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, No beta we die like illiterates, bigfoot au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:14:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27207949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patch/pseuds/Patch
Summary: Ghosts and grief go hand in hand, but out here, amongst the old trees of his home, Keith finds that they're often accompanied by new growth.
Relationships: Coran & Keith (Voltron), Keith & Keith's Father (Voltron), Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Series: A World in the Woods [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1664413
Comments: 12
Kudos: 50





	Homestead

**Author's Note:**

> For Jamie

It’s been just over a week since Keith’s life was turned on its head.

A week of reigning in his friends rampant and aggressive curiosity with the help of Coran while simultaneously coaxing Shiro into stilted, but ever improving conversations with them. For someone whose past experiences with humans were predominantly on the bad end of the scale, Shiro is doing remarkably well.

Keith picks his way down the hall to his— _their_ bedroom.

Between them all, they’ve managed to do an impressive amount of work in the little time they’ve had. The hole above the kitchen is still there but the debris that had littered the floor has been removed and the ceiling temporarily patched with a tarp from one of the vans. It’s odd to Keith—it’s barely been any time at all but he finds himself missing the ever shifting canopy of green—thinks Shiro does too by the way his hulking form always pauses whenever he passes the kitchen, soft grey eyes flickering up and ears twitching as they take in the loud crinkling of the plastic. 

Keith daydreams about the possibility of a skylight.

The rest of the house is much the same. Allura and Lance had swept and dusted the floors with a vigour that had been shocking. They’d gone room to room, armed with the old broom Keith had found in the closet and the brushes and wipes from the vans.

Shiro had hovered at the edges of whatever room they’d been in, filled with an anxious energy that Keith had only understood when he’d seen him bar them entry to the bedroom. Allura had smacked Lance when he’d squawked loudly, merely ushering him away and passing Keith the broom while she and Lance tackled the bathroom. 

Shiro had perched himself on the old mattress with Keith’s old blanket and Kosmo, seemingly content to watch as Keith swept the floorboards and set about scrubbing the cracked windows, until they let sunlight filter in unimpeded, the woods outside leaving dappled and dancing shadows spilling across the room.

Allura had firmly cemented her position as Shiro’s third favourite, after Keith and Kosmo, when he'd watched her, ever so carefully go about cleaning the old master bedroom.

She and Shiro had worked side by side, twin splashes of grey and silvery white. They'd moved the carefully organised bundles of herbs and flowers, and Shiro hefted the heavy furniture with barely a sign of exertion so Allura could clean beneath. 

The sight was vaguely comical—the dramatic disparity in their heights and forms standing out starkly in such close quarters—but also incredibly sweet. Shiro curled his shoulders in, bent himself towards her, ears pricked as he listened to her excited babble. Fondness had curled through Keith's chest when he'd popped his head in on them on sometime around day three. Allura sounded like a child, voice bright and eyes inquisitive as she talked to Shiro about the places she'd been with Coran and occasionally tossing out questions of her own.

She listened patiently as Shiro worked on getting out the stilted sentences that were slowly beginning to smooth themselves out. 

At some point early on in the week, Keith and Coran had managed to uncover the old shed from its tangle of vines and weeds. It took the both of them to break open the rusted lock, key long gone. It was filled with dusty cobwebs and there was a whistling breeze coming from somewhere that Keith couldn’t see but thankfully most of his dad's tools were still intact. Some were rusted but Keith made quick work in sharpening the blades with a wetstone he found in a drawer. 

The shed itself was big enough for a workshop. He'd need to shuffle things around but when the time came, he could work here—

—he could _live_ here.

He'd already made the trip back to camp once, reassuring Shiro that he'd be back. He and Coran had made a trip back to the city, grabbing essentials and important things from Keith's apartment. The trip back had been quiet but Keith's mind had been racing the entire ways, tripping down memories as trees and fields went past them in a kaleidoscope of green. 

There was an old track behind the house, staring just a little ways off from the shed. Keith remembered driving down it as a kid, staring out the window of his dad’s truck, watching the trees go by as his dad hummed while he drove. 

Back then, careful maintenance of the track had left a tunnel through the woods to the road, leading past the park and to the city. The trees bowed over, branches entangling over the roof of his dad's truck as they went to or from the cabin. 

Now it was overgrown, fallen branches blocking the carefully made tunnel and obscuring the track. They'd driven past the campgrounds to check it out, trying to find the small turnoff which would have led to the cabin. It had taken ten minutes of walking up and down the side of it to find signs of the track, hidden away behind a dense wall of spiky brush and tightly woven green. 

It would need to be cleared before it was usable but that was a problem for tomorrow's Keith.

The sun had disappeared behind the tree tops a while ago. Shiro and Kosmo had slipped back inside the cabin while Keith had stayed out to clear some of the tools, waiting patiently for the text from Hunk, confirming that the others had reached camp safe and sound.

It was reassuring to know that the biggest creature in the woods was harmless to them but below the calm that had settled over Keith in the last few days, there were still vestiges of unease.

What if Sendak or his men got out of custody somehow? What if they'd missed one of them somewhere?

Or what if _She_ sent someone else to Keith's woods?

As far as Keith was concerned, these were all legitimate concerns. Never mind the fact that the ranger—Kolivan—had promised to keep him apprised of the charges against Sendak and his gang of thugs. Never mind the fact that Keith and Kosmo had walked the bounds of his property twice that first day looking for any sign of someone they'd missed—had even gone out as far as the hollow he'd exchanged blows with Sendak in at one point, _just to make sure_ — 

Keith was feeling better about those two concerns now. Oh, they were still there, lurking below the surface but he's taken precautions, he's done his due diligence and if either problem comes true, well, then he'd deal with it. 

And he wouldn’t be alone either.  
  
But the _woman._

She was an unknown. He didn't have a name or a description, only knew that whoever she was, she was powerful enough to have Sendak and his team at her beck and call—and presumably others as well—and that she had an _interest_ in Shiro.

He'd asked Shiro once, about who she was, if he had any idea who Sendak had been referring too. Shiro had frozen, his hand coming up to almost absently cup the mass of scar tissue that made up the end of his other arm, eyes going terrifyingly and worryingly blank.

Keith had cupped his face with his hands, fingers tracing the marking there and the scar across his nose, and waited nearly six minutes for his eyes to come back into focus and for his tense muscles to unwind themselves. Shiro had made a broken apology, ears pinning themselves back against his fur and Keith had assured him it was fine if he didn't know even if a part of him suspected that might not be the full truth.

Keith would let Shiro have his silence. 

At least for now, anyway. Secrets were all well and good until they began to fester and something about this one had the faint taste of rot about it to Keith. He'd ask again eventually and that time he'd press if he needed too. 

He had made a promise to protect Shiro and he intended to keep it, even if that meant protecting him from shadowy and dangerous figures or from himself. 

Keith pads up to the bedding on silent feet. 

Shiro is already curled amongst the blankets, dead asleep. Kosmo stirs when Keith enters the room, yellow eyes opening to blink at him sleepily. His tail thumps once against the spare blanket Keith had found for him, and then he yawns, fangs flashing like shards of moonlight in the dim shadows of the room before he puts his head down and drifts back off to sleep.

Keith strips down to his boxers and tosses a thin shirt on, shivering slightly in the cool night air. If he were back at camp he'd be putting on something thicker but it turns out that Shiro put out enough heat to put a furnace to shame and Keith knew that within the hour he'd be kicking off his blankets to the bare minimum.

Shiro barely stirs as Keith slips into the nest of blankets beside him. Keith tugs his starry blanket over them both and squirms until he's got his head resting against Shiro's chest.

Under his cheek, is the slow, steady thump of a heart. Like this, in the quiet, haze space between wakefulness and sleep, it feels like it's loud enough to rattle his bones—like it's too much to be contained in one chest and is trying to sink its way into Keith's, a burden shared.

He lays there and, between one breath and the next, drifts off to sleep.

xXx

Morning comes too quickly for Keith, but it also arrives softly. 

Warm sunlight spills through the bedroom window, painting everything in swaths of gold. His eyes blink open slowly, heavy lidded and he just watches the way the light plays over the wall, dappled with the swaying branches that cradle the cabin. 

The very air feels soft, almost like the blanket, and it takes a while for Keith to hear the noise—long enough that his eyes have fallen shut again. It's quiet, barely there. Keith doesn't know if it's what woke him, not when it's so soft that he can barely hear it now. 

It's coming from somewhere towards the living room; the sound the wood flooring makes when someone's stepping in the places that don't creak, like they're trying not to wake him up. 

His eyes snap open and he sits up slowly, blankets pooling around his waist. 

At his side Shiro is still sleeping peacefully and Kosmo is sprawled at their feet. 

There's another sound, the faintest c r e a k. 

“S-shiro.” His voice cracks with sleep and something else. "Shiro, there's someone here." 

Shiro doesn't move, just continues to sleep, arm curled up against his chest now that Keith has moved. Keith twists, a hand reaching out to wake him but he stops. 

It could be nothing. Neither Shiro nor Kosmo had woken so it was even probable that it _was_ nothing, or at the very least that it's nothing _bad._ Besides, Keith loathes the thought of waking him up; the previous day had been long and filled with hard work and he deserves all the time he could to rest. 

With a hard swallow, Keith works his legs out from under the blankets. He stands, tucking it back in to keep the warmth trapped, and grabs his knife from where he put it the night before. Carefully, he steps around Kosmo to the bedroom door. 

He looks down as he goes. The shifting light makes his fur look odd, deeper somehow—like the spaces between stars—like Keith could press his hand against his side and keep going. 

Blinking, Keith looks away. 

Despite the ways the cabin has changed its not difficult to walk down the hallway without making the floors creak. It's been years but he grew up here and even now he knows this place like it's a part of him.

He gets to the living room and freezes stock-still as a shadow drifts across the floor. 

Whatever's casting it is in the kitchen. Its formless, the edges distorting and fracturing as the dappled light coming in through the broken ceiling shifts. It could be a person—sometimes it comes together just enough that he thinks he sees shoulders and an arm. There are other sounds too, like whatever— _whoever_ it is, is moving things about on the countertops but quietly. 

His hand tightens around the hilt of his blade. 

He waits for a heartbeat and then he _moves_. His hand comes up, knife glinting in the light, lips curling back in a snarl as he gets ready to demand the intruder tell him why they're in his home what do they _want_ —

Keith stills, knife falling from suddenly nerveless fingers. 

"Jesus kiddo," his dad says, a hand pressed to his chest, "Where's the fire?"

Keith stares and he stares and he stares. His hands shake. 

His dad frowns. "Keith? Kit, are you okay?"

Keith swallows and it feels like there's something jagged caught in his throat. 

"Dad?" he rasps. The jagged thing in his throat is trying to claw its way out. He tries to swallow it down again. "Daddy?"

His dad's face crumples. "Oh, kit c'mere." 

His arms open wide and Keith's moving before he even knows what he's doing, throwing himself forward. 

The embrace is as familiar as it's different—Keith's taller now than he ever was when his dad hugged him last; for the first time ever he can press his face onto his dad's shoulder without being picked up. His arms fit around him differently, Keith's own being able to fully encircle his dad's back for the first time. But for all the differences, he still holds him the same way, a hand coming up to cradle the back of his neck while the other arm curls tight around his back. He still smells the same, woodsmoke and honey clinging to his clothes and his skin. 

Keith's eyes sting. 

Sunlight is bleeding in through the gap in the ceiling, warm and thick. There's no tarp. Of course there isn't.

"I'm dreaming," he says thickly. He presses his face harder against his shoulder, ignoring the feeling of quickly dampening fabric. "You're dead and I'm dreaming."

He feels his dad breathe in deep. "Yes," he says quietly, "and yes. But that doesn't mean I ain't here, kit."

"What does that mean," Keith rasps, distress threatening to bleed into his voice. 

His dad must hear it because he starts to sway, gently rocking the two of them. His hand pets at Keith's hair in an attempt to soothe. 

"I've found that things can often be either dead and gone or just dead," he says after a long stretch of silence. "Sometimes things linger. Sometimes they even want to."

"I—" Keith shakes his head, pulling away from his dad, stumbling as he goes. "This is just a dream. You're dead and this is just a dream," he repeats. 

He looks up. His dad is watching him, hands still hovering like he wants to pull him back in. There's a sad look on his face and seeing it sends a sharp lance of pain through Keith's chest. 

"I suppose I can't really convince you." His dad laughs, hands dropping. It's not a happy laugh. 

They stand there for a while, not quite looking at each other. Keith finds himself desperate to look anywhere else and so he does—the kitchen, the floor, even just his dad's clothes in an attempt to avoid having to look up into his face. His plaid shirt is old and worn, the green on it is the same colour as the leaves outside. 

"I'm sorry," his dad says suddenly. 

Keith swallows, a hand coming up to dash at his face. "Sorry for what," he asks softly. Almost unwillingly, he looks back up. 

His dad shrugs, a tired looking gesture. "For leavin' you alone," he says quietly. "I always told myself that i'd do better than my own parents and then I just..." his dad sighs. "I never meant to leave you—never wanted to. I know it doesn't mean anything really, not when I still did but—" 

His dad looks up at him and his eyes are tired and sad. "Keith," he whispers. "I would've done anything to stay."

Keith's hands clench tight around nothing. 

In all the dreams he's ever had about his dad, they've never had this conversation before. Usually they're rote memories, playing out step by step; no real life to them for all he's grateful for their existence in keeping his memory sharp. Without them, would he remember what his dad looked like?

They stand there at a stalemate, and the foot or so between them might as well be the grand canyon for all Keith feels like he can transverse it.

Seconds tick by, bleeding into minutes. At first his dad looks like he wants to say something but after the first minute he went back to what he'd been doing when Keith had first come in. The mugs were the same as always—an old faded Wallace and Gromit mug for his dad, a smaller one with a tiny red firetruck on it for Keith. A jar of honey sat on the counter next to them, sending fractals of amber light spilling across the countertop. 

Keith blinks and the kitchen is run down and damaged. He blinks again and it's warm with familiarity and sunlight. He blinks a third time and it's both and his dad is pulling tea bags from one of the cupboards, the one that Keith had always been too short to reach.

"Tea and h—"

Keith steps back and away and wakes up.

xXx

Keith spends the next few hours drifting. Shiro notices his odd mood almost straight away, ears flickering and hand coming up to cup Keith's neck and his jaw.

"Okay?" He rumbles, questioning. Keith can hear the concern threading its way through his voice and has to smile, even though it's smaller than what he's gotten used to over the last few days.

"Okay," he replies softly. He presses his own hand against Shiro's and nuzzles into the palm of his hand once before leaning back slightly and letting them both drop.

Grey eyes narrow at him in suspicion and the next smile that flits its way across his lips is fond and genuine. A soft chuffing purr rips its way out of Shiro's throat and before he can do or say anything, Shiro is leaning down and rubbing a cheek against his own—almost a headbutt really, but softer.

Shiro pulls back and Keith quirks an eyebrow at him.

Shiro grins at him, lips pulling back to reveal black gums and white fangs. "Staying?" he asks, head cocking to the side slightly. 

Keith nods. "Hunk's coming over with Coran and we're going to see if we can get the generator running again. Might be a fool's hope, but between the three of us there might be a chance. After that I wanna try clearing out some of the track. You?"

Grey eyes blink at him slowly. "No. Hunting."

Keith hums. "Be back before dark?"

An ear flicks and Shiro nods. "Stay safe then," Keith says. "And stay on the lookout for bear traps. I think Pidge and myself got them all but it's possible there's something we missed." 

"Safe," Shiro murmurs. His voice sounds like the rustle of leaves. "You too."

Ten minutes later has Keith watching Shiro melt into the surrounding trees from the porch. Like always it's like he's there one second and then gone the next, ghostlike.

Kosmo trots over to him from where he'd been rolling in a patch of old leaf matter and flops against his side as Keith takes a seat on the steps. There's nothing else to do really, except to wait until the others get there which could take half an hour to an hour. Absently, Keith strokes a hand through Kosmo's fur, picking out tiny sticks and bits of leaves.

He could go back inside and wait for them there. They'd pushed the old and broken couch against the wall and piled some of the old blankets and pillows from his dad's closet in front of the table. He could always nap while he waits. He could even be productive with his time and make something to eat—Hunk had brought snacks and things which would last the days without spoiling and filled one of the cupboards for him.

But that would mean going to the kitchen and—

For a second, the light shifts and Kosmo's fur goes inky and deep and Keith has to work to not snatch his hand back.

—he just doesn't want to.

Besides, Hunk would come with food packed away neatly in tupperware containers as usual, and whatever filled them would be miles better than whatever Keith could scrounge up.

He dozes lightly on the steps, leaning against the solid post beside him. The sun shone down on them, warm and thick like molasses and golden like honey. The air was fresh and filled with the scent of green growing things and the rich dark soil beneath them. Around them, the trees creaked in the soft breeze, branches swaying slightly and setting the leaves to rustling.

Every now and then he could hear snatches of birdsong, filtering in through the trees.

The wood is sun warm under his cheek.

Even as the thought of going into that kitchen and seeing—seeing what exactly, what did he expect to see?—even as that filled him with some nebulous form of anxiety, the familiar sounds of the cabin soothed him. The soft creaks and groans of the wood, the rustling of bowing branches brushing lightly against the roof, the way the very foundations and floors seemed solid despite the damage and the walls seemed to breathe in time with him and the woods around them...

Keith took a moment to breathe, his gaze flickering about the clearing. 

Since waking in the cabin that first night, he's been nonstop. Every minute has been filled with something to do, something to fix—a problem to solve. For the first time since he came back he really looked around him, taking in the changes. 

As ever, the boundaries of the clearing were surprisingly well defined; a ring around the cabin, and the garden and the small shed out back. It was like the wild growth of the woods just stopped, its tangle of weeds and flowers dead leaf matter giving away to the gentle slopes of green grass and tiny wildflowers that Keith remembered so well. 

Only now there were other things growing there as well. The old pots his dad had kept by the steps had broken at some point and the familiar sight of violet and lilac had spilled all around them, lavender waving at him gently in the breeze. The raised herb patch his father had grown had gone wild, green starting to cascade over the edges of the weathered wood and Keith could see plants he didn't recognise amongst the plants he did; ones that looked suspiciously like some of the dried bundles Shiro kept in the master bedroom.

Moss grew up the sides of the cabin and the shed—if he turned his head enough Keith knew he would even see it growing in the carvings on the posts of the porch, soft green colouring in the delicate lines of leaves and vines that decorate the wood. Scattered about the clearing, old branches littered the grass from where they'd fallen from the cradling reach of the trees above and all in all, the cabin looked more like a part of the woods than it had ever done so before. 

But it was still his home. His daddy had built it with his own two hands, years before Keith had even been a glimmer in his eye—had kept it and tended to it the same way he did the woods on their property and the track behind the cabin.

The part of his gut that told him when to run and when to fight felt _still_ here like it has nowhere else. He felt safe sitting on the porch with his eyes almost falling shut, like he was a little kid again, clinging to his dad's leg, a large hand resting steadily against his shoulder. 

He thought of that moment, days before when he'd stood in the same spot and looked out on a sea of angry faces, how the cabin had loomed behind him, casting its shadow out across the clearing—a shadow Sendak had toed the line at. That feeling deep in his gut, tugging at him, keeping him on the porch and standing his ground against them, the voice telling him to _wait_.

He thought of the faint dream he had before that, hazy and half forgotten now, like smoke.

Flashes of stars and yellow eyes and hulking grey running at his side. A voice calling him home. His daddy had been waiting for him, he _remembers_ that, had been standing on the steps and looking out over the clearing.

There'd been someone else there with him, but he can't remember who.

In the quiet and the sun, with the warm wood under his cheek and Kosmo's fur under his hands, Keith thinks about the cabin. He thinks about the woods. And he thinks about ghosts.

xXx

"I think this might actually be cursed," Hunk says very seriously.

Keith grunts back, hands clenched tight around the wrench and muscles straining. Off to his left there's a high pitched giggle from Coran whose got a cloth wrapped tight around one slightly bleeding finger and a bandaid in the other. 

"Perhaps we can just try spraying it with DW40 and leaving it overnight?" Coran leans forward to inspect the rusted panel again. "Although I have to say, the colour of the rest of the panel doesn't give me much hope."

"Yeah, man," Hunk says, bracing the old generator against Keith's straining. "Maybe it'd just be easier to get a new one? Might take longer to get some electricity in this place but—"

"Shut. Up." Keith grits his teeth and presses harder and, bit by bit, he feels the bolt begin to budge.

A small shower of rust falls from the hole it's unscrewing from in a small red/brown cloud. He hears the others make a noise and then Coran is there, helping Hunk brace the machine. There's a moment where it feels like the screw gets stuck but with a sound that was almost a growl, Keith strains and the last of the screw comes free.

Hunk and Coran cheer. Keith drops the wrench off to the side, flexing his hands and rubbing at the marks dug into his palms and the three of them step back and watch as the metal panel falls to the tarp covered earth with a dull clang.

"Oh my," mutters Coran.

"That's a lot of spiders," Hunk says, looking vaguely sick.

Keith sighs. "Okay, I'll just...dust this out I guess. You wanna get lunch ready Hunk?"

Hunk nods, semi-frantically. "Yeah, sure thing."

Keith hears the sound of his footsteps fading off into the background, heavy beats against earth and then the creaking of wood as he heads up the stairs. Keith eyes the mass of tangled webs that makes up seemingly every spare space inside the old generator and sighs again. He doesn't want to kill any of the spiders which means this could take a while with just himself. 

He turns, fully intending to grab the old broom and maybe a stick or two, only to find Coran standing there, broom being proffered in one hand and the other filled with a few knobbly branches, bare of leaves.

"Two hands make lighter work," he says, smile bright and moustache seemingly bristling with energy.

Keith nods in thanks, takes one of the sticks and gets to poking. Carefully.

Between the two of them they get a system down fairly quickly. Keith prods gently at the old webs, dislodging bits of debris and sending various insects scurrying off and Coran brushes the parts clean where possible and carries off the occasional spider, delicately balances on leaves or the flat side of the broom. A few non poisonous ones go to the side of the old shed, others are carried off to be placed on trees out in the woods. 

They're a little more than halfway done with their relocation project when Coran, kneeling down, beside him and brushing at a particularly stubborn mass of old web and dirt, glances at him from the corner of his eye and says, "Is something troubling you No. 4?"

Keith pauses, stick in hand. "Why do you ask?" It comes out more hesitant than Keith would have liked. 

Coran hums. "You've been quiet this morning. Not that you're exactly chatty mind you, but there have been more one word answers from you than usual."

Keith huff lightly. "That so?"

"Quite." Coran gives up on the leftover mess and leans back, looking at Keith. His bright eyes are shrewd. "Now, I'm not saying that you have to talk to me but I'm sure Hunk or even Allura would be happy to listen if there's something on your mind."

Keith gnaws absently on a lip, stick twirling gently between his fingers. In the distance he can hear the clatter of Hunk moving about in the cabin. It probably shouldn't have taken so long to get lunch ready but if Coran had noticed Keith being quiet then Hunk definitely had. It was more than likely he was trying to give the two of them some space, and Keith felt a rush of fondness for his friend, especially when he considers Hunks eternal love of gossip. 

Beyond the sound of Hunk puttering about he hears the sound of the creaking woods. Trees sway in the breeze, casting long and dancing shadows over the clearing. Every now and then he sees the familiar shape of Kosmo disappearing in and out of the brush and between the trees—hunting or playing, Keith can't really tell—and somewhere beyond it all, Shiro is out there too. 

Just two of the strange things in these woods. 

Keith's lip stings as his biting finally draws blood. 

"Hey Coran?" he starts, still staring off into the ever shifting green. The other man hums. "Do you believe in ghosts?"

"Of course," Coran says, almost immediately. "I feel like at this point it would be sort of strange to discard the possibility of ghosts and spirits. You _did_ sleep in the same room as a Bigfoot last night."

Keith nods slowly, frowning. "Have you ever seen a ghost?" 

Coran pauses. "Ah. No, I can't say I have."

"Really?" Keith raises an eyebrow. "I'm sort of surprised by that. I feel like if anyone would have a ghost story it would be you."

Coran smiles and it's a small, almost sad thing. "Oh, believe me I've looked. There were even times that I thought...well it turns out I was mistaken." Coran follows Keith's gaze and his stare turns pensive. "So. Do I believe every ghost story is true? Of course not. Sometimes the dead just stay dead, I think—disappear off into whatever's waiting for us on the other side. But I certainly don't think they're all false either."

Keith hummed, consideringly. 

"That probably wasn't the most helpful answer I could have given y—"

"No," Keith interrupts. "No, that was helpful, thank you Coran."

"Glad I could help," Coran says quietly.

As they watch, the last cobweb catches on the wind and blows away. 

"Lunch?" Coran suggests after a quiet moment.

“Yeah." Keith flicks the stick off into the tree line. "Yeah, let's go."

xXx

Lunch was a quick and relatively quiet affair. Hunk and Coran carried the conversation, chatting easily about everything from the food to possible fixes for the mess that was the old generator. Every now and then Keith would catch Hunk's eyes flickering between him and Coran but after the first few times he seems to settle. 

The following hour, however, was an exercise in patience and frustration but by the end of it they had a mostly functioning generator. It was held together with duct tape, string and possibly prayer but the important thing was that they had power. Hunk and Coran left with a wave and a promise to bring back a phone charger when they came tomorrow and slowly, midday began to slide into evening. 

It was a gradual thing, barely noticed while he set about cutting back brush and branch where the mouth of the track would spill into their clearing. It was hard work and probably would have been easier with more hands but Keith found himself grateful for the solitude. He made neat stacks out of the wood, to be used as needed at some later point. The old fireplace would need to be checked before he could use it, but at least now he was prepared. He could even carry some back to the campsite if the others were planning on sticking around for much longer. 

His shoulders and arms begin to fill with a dull ache but it was a good feeling coming from honest work and it was easy to let himself fall into the swing and heft of it all. 

Around him, a muggy heat was beginning to build up. When he breathes in deep he can taste water on the back of his tongue—can feel ozone beginning to condense in the air like a physical thing. It was going to rain tomorrow; possibly tonight. Keith made a mental note to double check the tarp before he went in, to maybe even put another layer down. 

He made decent progress considering the scope of the job. The first few meters had been the hardest to clear but between one step and the next it seemed to open up, leaving the track itself more or less intact. He would have to clear away the undergrowth and the occasional stray branch but after ten minutes of walking down the track, an achingly familiar green tunnel all around him, he begins to think that it might actually continue on like this all the way down to the blockage at the road. 

Keith didn't really understand how that was possible but he found himself willing to take it on faith this time.

The walk back to the cabin came before the sun touched the tree line but not by much. He can hear the change in the birds, familiar warbles and twitters giving way to the long drawn out cries of the evening birds. 

As he walks he tugs at the stone around his neck, rubbing his fingers against the water smooth edges. On a whim he raises the hag stone to his eye and looks through the hole and the world around him seems to shift. The sinking sun set the tree tops ablaze and the shadows underfoot became long and dark. Above him the ever shifting canopy lit itself like emerald fire.

He lets the stone drop and continues on. 

There was the crack of a branch somewhere off to his left. His steps didn't falter, not even as another crack came from somewhere closer—in his gut he knew it before he saw it and he wasn't surprised when Kosmo came loping out of the woods a few feet further up the track. 

Kosmo's long pink tongue lolled out of mouth as he panted, tail wagging happily as he waited for Keith to catch up.

"Am I late or something?" Keith asked dryly.

Kosmo looked at him with his yellow eyes and then sneezed. 

They walk back the rest of the way together. Every now and then Kosmo would dart off to stick his head into the underbrush or to sniff at something interesting but he always came right back around to nudge himself solidly against Keith's leg or hand. It wasn't long before they reached the clearing and Kosmo trotted off to lay in the last drying patch of sunlight, yellow eyes fixed on some point amongst the trees, beyond what Keith can see.

Keith grabs another tarp from where he'd stashed them in the shed and hauls the old ladder over to rest it against the wall of the cabin. It's a quick and easy task, adding a second layer to the broken spot of the roof and he spends the next few minutes watching the sun set from his perch—a flash of dying light as the sky goes golden and pink and red before the cool dark of night begins to take over the sky. When he looks behind him, he can see storm clouds building in the distance and he can feel the change in the wind.

Keith clambers down the ladder when the cool of the night becomes a bit too much and his feet only just hit the ground when the sound of soft footfalls reaches his ears. 

The hulking form of Shiro slips into the clearing like a shadow come to life.

"You're back," Keith says quietly, a pleased warmth already building in his chest like stoked embers. "Was the hunting good?"

"Good," Shiro nods. He pads up to Keith and he doesn't even have time to brace before one long and solid arm curls its way around his waist. "Hunting good. Rabbits. You?"

"Got plenty of work done," Keith tells him, slumping against his chest. 

The fur under his cheeks is warm and he can hear the faint rumble of a purr and the steady beat of his heart. The warmth is enough to make him realise exactly how tired he was and he can't fight back the yawn that cracks his jaw. The rumbling purr hops and skips and it takes a second for it to click that Shiro is laughing at him.

"Tired?" Shiro asks, a teasing note threading its way through his voice. 

Keith snorts and nuzzles his face against fur. "Tired," he agrees, pulling back just enough to stare up at Shiro. The moonlight lights him up in silver. "Also sort of hungry."

Shiro's ears perk up. "Food?"

Keith smiles. "Bet you Hunk left us something."

"No bet," Shiro says, lips quirking up in a crooked grin that flashes his fangs.

Keith chuckles and pulls back, taking Shiro's massive hand in his own and threading their fingers together. His hand is so big that it makes his own fingers ache a bit to do so but he thinks he likes it even more because of that. 

"Come on," Keith tugs. "Lets go check."

Keith leads them up the stairs, stepping pointedly over Kosmo when he refuses to move from his spot sprawled on the porch. Shiro makes a pointed chuffing noise as he does the same and Keith hears Kosmo huff softly as they walk inside. A second later there's the scrambling sound of claws on wood and the next thing he knows, there's a cold nose nudging at the hand not holding onto Shiro.

There's a blue tub sitting on the kitchen counter just as Keith expected. When he pops the lid he finds a couple of sandwiches, bottled water and a small ziplock bag of jerky that he suspects Hunk made specifically for Kosmo.

The three of them sink themselves down onto the blankets strewn about the coffee table and set about eating their food. Shiro, who had only accepted half of a sandwich that looked hilariously tiny in his hand, finishes first and wraps himself around Keith's back while he eats his own. Kosmo, who finishes second after snapping up three pieces of jerky, flops onto his side and sticks his head under a loose blanket and seemingly goes to sleep.

Keith can relate. The warmth from Shiro was seeping into his back and the longer he sits there the harder it is to chew and keep his eyes open until eventually he gives up on the sandwich, wrapping the uneaten half up carefully and slumping against Shiro, back to chest.

There's that rumble coming from behind him, low and constant and a heavy arm wraps around his waist and Keith can't stop the smile forming on his lips. The weight of Shiro against his back feels like a bulwark and he's so reluctant to pull away and so he doesn't. He settles against Shiro and the mess of blankets and lets his eyes slide shut and he breathes deep of air that smells like pine and good earth and...

“— _oney?_ "

Keith's breath catches in his chest. He lets it out slow and with a steadiness he doesn't feel and then he opens his eyes.

His dad is standing at the edge of the blankets, firetruck mug in one hand, a spoon with honey in the other. His broad shoulders curve inwards like he's trying to make himself smaller and the look on his face is a little tired and a little nervous. Keith takes another deep breath. And then another.

He thinks about the cabin, and the woods, and about ghosts.

The moment stretches between them like taffy.

"Yeah," he croaks out eventually. "Honey's good."

His dad looks at him and his eyes light up and he fumbles the teaspoon, almost dropping it, in his haste to stir it into his tea. The sound of the metal clinking against the ceramic is the only sound in the room for a long moment and then the next thing Keith knows, the mug is being held out towards him, steaming gently.

He takes it and blows on the tea.

"Be right back," his dad says, heading back into the kitchen.

Keith takes the chance to sit up and look around, taking in the changes. Like before, the dream and the real world seem to bleed into each other—the kitchen looks like how it used to except with new shadows as sunlight filters in through the hole in the ceiling. The coffee table in front of him has all of its new scratch marks but the lacquer on the wood looks fresh. 

It's daytime in the dream instead of night.

The light from the front window spills across the floor in a soft bronze, thick like honey and warm like the ceramic gently heating the palms of his hands. The blankets under and around him are a riot of fire reds and forest greens, the colours bright like they aren't in real life. Half under one of them is a mass of inky blackness and glittering stars in the shape of a dog.

At his back, Shiro stirs before settling again. Looking away from Kosmo, Keith turns to look at the Bigfoot curled up behind him. Like this, his fur is a burnished silver, soft and downy looking and his scars are softer looking, like they're a lifetime faded. 

He looks younger.

"Couldn't believe how big he'd gotten, first time he showed up here."

Keith looks up at his dad. He's staring down at Shiro, a soft look on his face. In his hands is his own steaming mug of tea, the wisps of it curling up around his face like ghostly tongues of fire.

"How long ago was that?" Keith asks softly.

His dad shrugs and sighs. "Not rightly sure, if I'm honest. A few years maybe?"

Keith blinks at his dad and he huffs out a small breath of laughter. ""s not like I have a calendar here. Not even sure I'm fully awake all the time—sometimes I blink and the seasons change."

His dad groans as he sinks down to sit cross legged on the floor. It's familiar, almost painfully so—how many times had his dad sunk down to sit next to him _just like that,_ how many times had he groaned and complained about his joints _"spry like a sapling you are, have some mercy for us old growth you hear?"_ poking at Keith's knobbly knees and elbows as he did.

Keith closes his eyes against the prick of tears and when he opens them, his dad is watching him with a knowing look in his eyes. 

"You know," his dad starts, "you're taking this a might bit better than you did earlier."

Keith sips at his tea. It tastes exactly how it should. "Thought about some things," he says, half into the mug. "Probably be stupid of me if I didn't give this a chance."

"No," his dad says softly. "Not stupid; understandable. World doesn't always take kindly to people like us and you've been out there on your own for a long time."

"Yeah," Keith manages after a moment. "Yeah, I guess."

Silence stretches between them as Keith mulls over what his dad said. "People like us?" 

His dad takes a deep breath and then lets it out slowly. "Yeah, Kit." The lines on his face deepen as he frowns and Keith waits, breath stuck somewhere in his chest. This was important, what he was about to hear—somehow he knew that.

"You know, our family used to be huge?" 

Keith shakes his head slowly. He's never heard about the rest of his family—hadn't thought there were any and didn't know if he wanted to find them if they were out there.

His dad's eyes go sad. "Not—not anymore I don't think. Started dropping like flies back when I was a kid—felt like every month my pa got a letter about so-and-so passing even if we never went to a damn funeral. Things were startin' to move back then—beginning or ending, never could quite tell which—maybe both, depending on how you were lookin' at it."

"Now, I never had siblings but my pa—see he was one of seven brothers, born from one of seven daughters…” His dad shakes his head slightly, putting the mug down on the ground beside him. "Things like that _mean_ something. Maybe a little or maybe a lot, but it always means _something_."

He leans forward, dark eyes staring into Keith's. "I only ever met my grandma a handful of times but I remember her house. Hand carved wood for the porch pillars, iron nails set above the doors and a storeroom full of drying herbs she grew herself, and—well, even back then I knew that she didn't belong to no church and not just cuz she was a single mother of seven boys."

"My pa never had much of the gift—couldn't use those herbs to make much more than a fine pot of tea. But his mamma had told him once, long before I was born that sometimes gifts like theirs—like _ours_ —save themselves to skip a generation or two."

"And she was right," Keith guesses, feeling oddly hesitant.

His dad laughed, bright and loud. "She was always right—damn woman could make predictions you could set your watch to." He settled back down, still grinning ever so slightly. "I got the gift—a little bit anyways, more than your granddaddy. Enough to find this place and make it mine. That being said, I'm pretty sure most of the spark that he might have had, went to you." 

The words hang in the air between them and his dad seems to fidget in place, just tiny small movements that had the fabric of his shirt shifting over his shoulders. When he spoke next, he talked softly, like he was talking to a shying animal. "You notice things Keith; things you shouldn't, things other people don't want known. Things other people want to keep hidden." 

Keith thinks of Sendak then, of that very first encounter—how had none of the others aside from Allura seen the gun? He thinks of so many things before that, of knowing where to hide things from prying eyes, of keys to cupboards tucked away and a hundred other little incidents which mean nothing on their own, but might mean something when put together. 

"You feel things too—when to run and when to fight; who to stay away from and who to befriend."

Keith swallows hard.

"There's probably more to it that you haven't found yet," His dad went on. "Sometimes bits of the gift stay hidden until you need them, which is a good thing in some ways."

"What do you mean?" Keith asks.

"The stronger the gift, the brighter it is," his dad said quietly, "and there are always things out there, looking for that fire."

A shiver runs down Keith's spine, like cold water. 

"I was gonna teach you everything I knew when you were a bit older," his dad confesses. "Just a year or two more at most—gonna teach it to you like how I taught you about the woods. But that _damn fire_ —" He breaks off and stares down at the blanket spilling across the floor in front of him. 

Here, in the dream, the red threads glow like embers—but Keith knew in the waking world the colours were dull and faded after years of neglect. Keith felt that chill spread from his spine and into his chest.

Keith rarely thought about the fire and what came after—tried his best not to at least. About waiting and waiting and waiting for his dad to come home, about day turning into a red streaked dusk, turning into a cold and lonely night. He'd made himself breakfast the next morning, a simple bowl of cereal cuz his dad still didn't want him using the stovetop without supervision, and then going out to wait on the front porch. He hadn't heard a sound, other than the usual ones from the woods until noon when a car came up the track to the cabin.

It hadn't been his dads. 

"I was gonna show you," his dad says quietly—mournfully. "Was gonna show you everything."

"I'm sure you were," Keith replied, fingers tracing the red firetruck on his mug. 

They fall back into an uneasy silence. Keith didn't want it to be like that; this was his _dad_ , conversation hadn't always been plentiful between them but silences had never been strained. But there was a disconnect between them, one born of a death and a leaving and long years gone by and Keith _hated it_ like he hadn't hated anything in years. 

Keith thought about sitting in the backseat of that car, his small bag filled with clothes and the few items he'd been able to grab before having to leave, and watching the green tunnel pass by overhead and knowing that he'd never see it again from the passenger side of his dad's old truck. He thought about bouncing from home to home, about being seen as 'the problem child' when he was too quiet or too loud, too angry and sad or when he had to break things to get sent back because there was just something wrong with the house and the people in it...

A pit had grown inside him as the years passed and it had only just begun to heal with the finding of Kosmo, and then Hunk carefully forcing his way into his life. It was something black and awful and it was just—

—It was _there_ , lingering under his breastbone, like a shard of something. Keith dashes at his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Kit?"

Keith breathes in deep, knuckles going white around his mug. "I'm mad at you."

His throat tightens. Keith swallows, but the stone lodged in his throat refuses to move. His eyes burn. He repeats quietly, lips beginning to quiver, "I'm mad at you."

There's a sharp breath from across the blankets but Keith doesn't look up, _can't_ look up. 

When he thinks about it, he was always going to wind up here, having this conversation. It wouldn't have mattered if he hadn't talked to Coran, if he hadn't spent that time thinking about the cabin and home and the things his dad had made; it didn't matter if he believed in ghosts or not, if magic was real or not, because his dad was _dead_ but _he was here_ —

He wanted to see his dad, even if it wasn't real and especially if it was, but lurking below that—

Keith breathes out shakily, "I'm really, really mad at you."

That shard in his chest shatters out of him in a sob. _Fuck_. He closes his eyes, hands fumbling to put the mug onto the low table. He presses them against his eyelids until he sees stars spark in the black but the tears stream down his face regardless, hot and damning.

"Oh hell, kit."

He hears the sound of shuffling and feels the blankets around and under him shift and then warm, calloused hands are on his wrists, tugging gently. Keith lets his hand's be pulled away and looks up at his dad through watery eyes.

He looks destroyed. "Don't cry, kit."

Keith sniffles in response, feeling like a little kid again. Chest heaving, he looks away towards tangled blankets and warm sunlight. The mass of shadows and glittering points of light half hidden under a sheet of green, stirs.

"C'mere," his daddy says, voice sounding rough. He tugs at Keith again and Keith lets himself be led clumsily out of the blankets until he's tucked into his side. Warm hands thread themselves through Keith's hair, rubbing circles into the nape of his neck and Keith presses his face against his dad's shoulder. He can't hear a heartbeat but the smell clinging to his clothes is the same as always; honey and woodsmoke. 

"You're allowed to be mad at me," his daddy says against the top of his head. He presses a kiss there and Keith shudders, a fresh set of tears rolling hot down his cheeks. 

Keith doesn't know how long they sit there like that. Isn't even sure if it matters in a dream. His dad rocks them both gently, swaying side to side in a move so reminiscent of his childhood that it almost has Keith breaking down again.

Eventually his crying slows and his breaths come easier and the ugly thing that's been living in his chest for years and years feels a little bit smaller.

His eyes feel gritty and he feels _tired_ which almost makes him laugh. 

"I don't wanna be mad at you," he whispers. "It's dumb and stupid cuz it's not like you asked to go away but you did and it _hurts_ , and I was alone and I just wanted to be back here with you."

Another kiss to the top of his head. "I know. And I'm so, _so_ sorry that it happened like that." Strong arms tighten around him and the embrace makes him feel like a child. "I hate that you were alone for so long; that I wasn't there for you."

"If—if you can see me now," Keith says, voice small, "why couldn't you find me earlier?" Why was he alone for so long?

His dad sighs again and Keith feels the way it stirs the hair on his head. "The Green keeps its own. I tended to it; kept its borders as safe as I could in life and in death it brought me back here to rest."

"So you're trapped here?" Keith said, faint tinges of distress bleeding into his voice. 

"Less trapped, and more bound on purpose." He feels his dad shrug ever so slightly. "By myself, I ain't that strong—not enough to stay on this plane by my lonesome. But I grew roots here; dug myself into the soil and put my blood, sweat and tears into this place. When I died I reached out and the Green reached back." 

Voice gone quiet, he says, "I wanted to see you again and here was the only place I could do it."

Keith thinks about that, about his dad binding himself to the old wood of their home, to the trees and the stones and the creeks on the chance that it might mean that he'd get to see Keith again. He said it like it was a simple thing but Keith knew that it was anything but.

"You talk about the woods like it's alive," he whispers eventually. 

His dad chuckles gently, and the hand in his hair tugs at a strand, softly reprimanding. "You know it is. You hear it talkin' sometimes, don't you? Hear it guidin' your step, helpin' you find your way home. You've been under its branches since before you could walk. It's old and it knows you, kit, just like it knows me," he adds softly.

The woods had always felt alive to Keith in a way that he'd never been able to articulate. Sometimes it felt like he'd look out at the trees and see the whole world breathing in time with him. Sometimes, back when he was a kid, he'd stare and see things moving through the branches, shadows of birds or animals where there were none. His dad said that the green keeps its own; Keith wonders how many of the things he's seen are ghosts, moving about the leaves—animals, birds or even other, more nameless things that were brought back into its embrace if they didn't wish to leave. 

Death, after all, was a common and unavoidable thing in the woods. 

But then again, so was Spring. 

Keith sits there, listing from side to side with the sway. "Does this mean you're gonna stay?" The question comes out far more tentative than he ever wanted it to. 

His dad swallows. "Yeah, kit, I'm gonna stay. I'll stay until you go, and your mama, and even that lump of fur you call a boyfriend if I have to in order to make you happy."

Keith chokes out a laugh, a hand reaching out almost on instinct to brush against the fur of one of Shiro's ankles. "You know then?"

His dad huffs. "You're in my damn house, in my damn wood; how could I not."

They both fall into soft chuckles that sound vaguely hysterical to Keith's ears. A hand comes up to ruffle his hair gently. "He's been happier since you got here," his dad confides. "I woke when he came back to these woods and he was so...sad. Tired. Limped and flinched like a beaten dog and all I could do was coax him here and make the place feel safe for him."

Keith could see it easily; Shiro fresh from whatever hell had taken his parents and his arm, finding his way back to these woods. It hurt to think about.

Keith blinks away the sting in his eyes. "Is Shiro really small for a Bigfoot?"

His dad hums, thoughtful. "Don't rightly know. He is smaller than his parents at least."

Keith looked up at his dad. "You knew them?"

"A little. I felt them when I first came here; saw them a few times after, usually from a distance. As a rule, their people seem to prefer keeping to themselves."

"Probably safe that way," Keith says quietly.

"Probably," his dad agrees. 

"...Sounds lonely though." Keith adds after a second. 

"Probably," his dad repeats again, softer and more gently.

Keith lets his eyes drift shut, trying to soothe the dull ache that's been forming in them since he first started crying. There isn't a heartbeat under his ear but he can feel the rise and fall of his dad's chest—wonders briefly why one is a thing while the other isn't—when suddenly there's the touch of something cold and wet against the exposed skin of his arm.

Keith yelps, jolting out of his dad's embrace and landing hard against the floor.

He groans, eyes blinking open and finds himself looking straight into gleaming yellow eyes. 

"Think he did that on purpose," his dad says, sounding amused.

"You think?" Keith asks dryly. He can't tear his eyes away from the yellow.

Carefully, Keith reaches out a hand and the dog shaped mass of shadows and light seems to huff, before Kosmo presses his muzzle against his palm. There's no fur exactly; if Keith looks hard enough he can see into him, like a nebula that's been condensed into shape.

"Never thought I'd see one of them down here." His dad says and Keith makes a questioning sound in the back of his throat.

"A star wolf," his dad replies, leaning forward to inspect Kosmo closer, seemingly unaware of the way Keith has frozen. "Could be a comet but my guess from how big he is, he's a constellation." 

Keith looks up at his dad, eyes wide. "What?" he says flatly.

His dad blinks at him and then looks down at Kosmo who's now nudging at Keith's hand, begging for scratches. "Don't tell me you thought he was a normal dog?"

"I—" Keith cuts himself off, blinking rapidly. No. No, he's never really thought that, not since he followed that tug in his chest and saw Kosmo curled up at the shelter. But still, "You said that he's a—a _constellation?_ "

His dad hums, reaching out to scratch behind Kosmo's ear when Keith's hands remain frozen. "Certainly looks that way."

"But," Keith flounders for a second, mind scrambling to process, "how can a constellation be here?"

"Sometimes the smaller ones fall, but not often—and it's usually the cat's that decide to go wandering." His dad finds the spot on Kosmo's neck that makes his hind legs kick. "Hasn't happened for hundreds of years though, least not that I know of."

Keith opens his mouth and then shuts it with a click. "If a constellation falls then does it go missing from the sky?"

"Yup."

Keith frowns down at Kosmo, tongue lolling out from between shades of starlight. "But all the constellations are still there. I'm pretty sure someone would have made a fuss if they weren't."

His dad fixes him with a look. "You think humans are the only ones with constellations? Most folk stuck here on this plane make up stories about the sky and the things in it."

Keith's hand finally unsticks itself, and he pets at Kosmo, mind reeling as he considers what that means. Under his hand, Kosmo rolls onto his back, basking in the duel hands scratching at him. The black shadows still don't quite feel like fur.

"How come he's here?" Keith asks eventually. "In this dream with us."

"He's a constellation, they tend not to be entirely bound by the rules of this plane. Also," his dad says, consideringly, "he seems to have attached himself to you. Where you go, he goes."

"Sounds about right," Keith murmurs.

The longer the two of them sit there, petting at Kosmo, the more Keith becomes aware of the tiredness of his eyes and the heaviness of his limbs. He's asleep but it feels like he's been awake for days and the desire to rest tugs at him, growing more and more insistent as the minutes pass.

His dad must see it on his face, because he smiles softly and says, "Go to sleep, Keith."

"Not tired yet," Keith says around a yawn and he watches his dad crack a smile at the familiar line.

"You need proper rest," he says quietly, pulling away from Kosmo and Keith. "What we're doin' here isn't quite that."

Keith lets himself be moved, poked and prodded until he's back to lying amongst the nest of blankets, back pressed against Shiro. Kosmo pads over a moment later to curl up against his front and above them, his dad smiles. The bronze light of the room goes soft and hazy around the edges, like a noon light gentling into evening and somewhere, just beyond the edge of his hearing, he thinks he hears a howl.

 _Chimes at midnight._

Like that, it's easy to close his eyes, lulled by the warmth of Shiro's bulk against his back and the strange press of Kosmo against his front. 

He'd always wanted a dog made of stars. He thinks he even wished for it once.   
  
Keith can hear his dad shuffling around, hears the clink of ceramic against ceramic as his dad collects their mugs. The floorboards creak as he begins to walk away and a sudden panic shoots itself through his chest. His eyes fly open, fixating on his dad retreating back.

"I'll see you again, right?"

His dad stops and looks back, eyes widening before going soft. "'Course kit. I ain't leavin' you again; when you fall asleep I'll be here waiting." He smiles at Keith then, crooked and fond and familiar. "Besides, I've got a lot to teach you."

His dad turns and continues on into the kitchen and Keith watches him go before finally, his eyes slide shut and he falls into sleep.

xXx

Keith curls into the familiar shape of Kosmo, eyes slitting open just the slightest.

He's still in the living room; he can feel the soft blankets rubbing against his cheek and his arms. Outside the sky was wolf grey and the light came in weak and watery with the promise of rain—by the look of the shadows it's later than morning which explains the absence of Shiro at his back. 

He lets his eyes drift back shut only for the floor beside his head to creak, and he feels _something_ lean down into his space.

Keith's eyes flash open and Lance shrieks in surprise and pain as Keith swats at him out of reflex.

"Called it," Pidge says from her spot cross legged on the floor. She doesn't bother looking up from her laptop. 

"We all called that," Hunk says dryly from somewhere behind Keith's head. 

Lance makes an indignant sound from where he's clutching at his nose, half sprawled over the coffee table. He opens his mouth so say something and Keith cuts him off with a groan.

"No," Keith mutters, pressing his face against the blankets. "'s too early for this."

"Technically it's almost 11," Pidge says, eyes flickering up to look at him. "But yeah, actually you look beat."

"Are you okay Keith?" 

Keith lifts his head to blink up at Allura.

Lance makes another sound. "Is he okay? What about me, mountain man almost broke my nose."

Without looking at him, Allura reaches out to pat him on the shoulder. "There there."

Keith rolls his eyes when Lance actually looks mollified by that. "'M just tired," he offers eventually, rolling onto his back to blink hazily up at the ceiling. "Coran?" he asks.

"Took one of the van's and went on a shopping trip," Lance calls out as he wanders off to sit by Pidge. "Hunk and Pidge gave him a list so he might be a while."

"Shiro?" Keith asks next.

"I believe he said something about flowers," Allura offers him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "He was around the side of the cabin looking through the plants earlier." 

Keith grunts in thanks, shuffling over slightly when Allura lowers herself to sit by him, delicately tucking a length of green blanket over her legs. People accounted for, he lets himself relax back into the piles of fabric surrounding him. He's just beginning to doze off again when he hears Allura make a small sound.

"Mm?" Keith cracks open an eye to look at her questioningly.

"Oh nothing really," she says, waving him off. "Just—does anyone else smell honey?"

Keith freezes and then breathes in deep. He smiles.

"Yeah," he says softly, eyes already beginning to fall shut again. "I do."

He's half asleep again, drifting off to the sound of the others chatting and the sounds of the woods outside when a thought rises up within him, like a piece of flotsam or jetsam bobbing to the surface of the ocean. It's indistinct at first, just a little nagging thing and it slips between his grasp a few times before he finally manages to catch it.

His breath stutters in his chest and Kosmo shifts at his side, head turning until he's looking at Keith with his yellow eyes.

Keith sinks a hand into his fur, mind tripping over itself. 

_"I'll stay until you go, and your mama, and even that lump of fur you call a boyfriend if I have to in order to make you happy."_

_You, and your mama, and your boyfriend._

_Your **mama.**_

"What?" Keith breathes out, eyes going wide.

"What?" Lance answers back as everyone turns to look at him.

Keith can't answer. He just lays there, hands clenched in Kosmo's fur, eyes fixed wide on the ceiling above him. Outside the green shifts and sways with the wind and the dappled lighting in the room moves with it. A storm was on its way.

Unseen by them, resting on the table next to two lions and other precious things, the knife Keith had hidden and carried with him from home to home begins to glow.

**Author's Note:**

> A tiny belated birthday fic for Keith.
> 
> Come yell at me about Sheith on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/PatchOfFeathers)


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